


signed, sealed, delivered (i'm yours)

by QLaLa



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Barry Allen Isn't The Flash, But someone is ;), Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Rough Foreplay, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 08:49:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20355730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QLaLa/pseuds/QLaLa
Summary: Barry Allen made $6.25 an hour as a delivery driver, before tips. He really,reallywasn't getting paid enough for this.Or: Hartley Rathaway orders a pizza to a (formerly) top secret meeting of the newly-assembled Rogues. Because what Leonard Snart really needed was another problem.





	signed, sealed, delivered (i'm yours)

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to my beta Elizabeth, who basically pitched this idea to me whole cloth.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

The meeting was only the third time that Leonard Snart had corralled all of the Rogues into the same place, and he was already beginning to think that the new safe house wasn’t going to be large enough to fit all of their egos. 

Mardon had threatened to throw Hartley out a window twice in the last fifteen minutes, Simmons was flicking the lightbulb above them on and off to get a rise out of Scudder, and Rosa… well. Rosa was planning something, simpering and calling him “boss” in a tone that raised the hair on the back of Len's neck and several red flags as well. 

It was only Mick’s presence at the dining room table nearby, conspicuously sorting through a small mountain of sawed-off shotguns, that gave Len the reassurance that he did in fact have the reinforcements necessary to carry out the meeting. 

That, and the fact that Lisa was earning a truly remarkable number of unnerved glances by sharpening a pair of ice skates in the middle of the coffee table. She could have achieved the same result by laying an unsheathed knife out in front of her, but Len suspected she wanted to leave an impression. 

“Alright,” Len said. All the conversation in the room came to a halt. “Enough chatting. Bivolo, sit down.”

Bivolo fixed Len with a beady stare, but slowly slid down to rest on the edge of the window seat without comment.

Len shook off his unease. “Three days,” he announced, “and the Santinis move to hit Central Bank. Anyone doesn’t have their set up finished by then, you lose your cut. I need every red light camera on Sixth Avenue shut down by this time tomorrow, or—”

The doorbell rang. 

For a moment, absolute silence reigned. Then, guns appeared from under a variety of clothes and the sound of safeties clicking off filled the room. Mick rose from his seat, unholstering the heat gun at his hip as he did so, and Len gave him a terse nod when he looked to him for confirmation. He reached for the cold gun strapped to his thigh.

“Oh, that’s for me!”

It was only Shawna’s reflexes that kept Mardon from shooting Hartley in the head. She disappeared across the room and reappeared with her hand jammed against the hammer of Mardon’s gun, preventing him from firing. 

Hartley hopped up from the arm of the couch and strode as calm as anything across the room. He didn’t even glance at Shawna. 

Len caught his arm as he attempted to walk past. “Two seconds to explain who’s at the door, or I’ll let Mardon here introduce you to that window he was talking about.”

Hartley opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off by a second ring of the doorbell. This time, it was accompanied by a hesitant, “Uh, delivery?”

Len dropped Hartley onto the coffee table; Hartley narrowly avoided landing on top of one of Lisa’s skates. Then Len strode to the door, undid the four deadbolts, and yanked it open. 

A hand was poised to knock. When Len slid his gaze past it, he found himself face to face with the brightest pair of green eyes he had ever seen.

Len looked him over. A young face; he'd guess twenty, but the stance said a few years older. Sneakers impractical for running or fighting. Nervous grip on the pizza box. Name tag said “Barry.” A guilty look as the kid tried his hardest not to glance over his shoulder, where Len was certain that at least half a dozen illegal guns were pointed their way. 

“It’s. Um. It’s sixteen dollars?” He winced. “That’s actually, you know what, you can just have it, I’m gonna—”

Len caught him by the collar as he turned to go without even waiting for Len to take the box. He startled hard enough that he dropped the pizza, and Len clamped a hand over his mouth before he could shout. 

“How about you step inside for a minute, _ Barry?_ Got a couple questions for you.”

Lisa kicked the door shut as soon as Len had dragged him inside. It rang out loud as a gunshot, but Barry didn’t flinch this time, eyes locked on the array of weapons pointed his way.

Len pushed Barry to his knees in front of the coffee table. “I let go of you, you gonna scream?” 

Barry shook his head without moving his gaze from Mick’s heat gun.

“Look at me.” 

Barry warred visibly with the command for a moment, then finally shot Len a defiant look from the ground, nostrils flaring.

Len cocked his head, momentarily surprised by the lack of fear in the kid’s expression. Then he nodded and released Barry. 

Barry caught himself before he could slump to the floor. 

“I didn’t hear anything,” he said. “Whatever you guys are doing. I don’t care, okay? I get paid—not a lot. I’m gonna get docked every minute I’m not back, on top of the sixteen dollars you’re probably not gonna give me. I’m not gonna say anything, I just—”

Len caught him by the arm and hauled him up again.

This time, Barry twisted out of his grip with unexpected speed, kicking out and sending himself off balance so that Len’s only options were to drop him or get pulled down with him. He chose the former, and Barry went sprawling to the ground again. 

The Rogues were absolutely still, spring loaded, as Len regarded the kid scowling up at him. 

“Saying you didn’t hear anything? Pretty good giveaway that you did. So here’s the thing, Barry.”

Barry flinched at the use of his name, and Len smirked. Still, he didn’t like the way Rosa and Mirror Master were looking at Barry, that blank cruel amusement in their eyes that itched for blood. The name may have been a mistake.

“You and me, we’re gonna have a talk in the kitchen about what is was, exactly, you didn’t hear.” Len watched Barry clock where the kitchen was, then mark its proximity to the front door. He nearly snorted. If the kid’s plan was to take him in a fight, he had to know it would only lower his chances of walking out of the place alive. 

“After that,” Len said, then paused to let Barry appreciate that there would be an _ after that. _ Not many people in the city got to say the same thing. “After that, we’re gonna give you your sixteen dollars. Then you leave. Fast.”

He’d barely managed to push Barry into the shadows of the kitchen doorway when Barry yanked against his grip again and tried to jam an elbow into his side. Len caught the blow calmly, twisted Barry’s arm behind his back, and guided him further into the room without missing a step. 

“Keep trying to hit me and you’re gonna lose your tip.” 

Barry tossed his hair out of his eyes as he threw a glare over his shoulder. 

Len snorted. He almost admired the kid. He gave Barry a light shove towards the far counter then drew the cold gun from its holster before he could get his bearings. He leveled the gun at Barry as he turned. 

Barry stilled. Then, shoulders tense, he raised his palms. 

Len acknowledged it with a slight nod. He charged up the gun just to watch Barry’s eyes widen; it was a good look on him. Len allowed himself a moment to appreciate the surprised part of his lips and the brush of freckles that the blue light illuminated across his cheeks. Then Len reached behind him, pulled open the door of the toaster oven, and threw a stack of bills he’d had stashed inside toward Barry.

Barry caught the bundle, looked down at it, and then back up again.

“You’re bribing me?”

“Stop talking,” Len said. He dropped the gun back against his shoulder so that it pointed harmlessly up at the ceiling. “The less this crowd hears your voice, the better. Not everyone’s keen on the Flash’s new rules of engagement in this town.”

He watched for any recognition in the kid’s eyes, and found none. Good.

“You didn’t hear anything here. Take the cash. Say it was a prank call. I want this address out of your database. And Barry…” He waited until he had those eyes on him again. “Stay away from this street if you know what’s good for you.”

Barry looked behind him at the side door—so he’d taken note of that, then; Len was impressed—then back up at him. 

Len admired the distrust in his eyes. “Go. Now. Before I change my mind.” 

He waited until Barry had edged backwards out of the room, made a break for the door, and slammed it behind him to power down the cold gun. He allowed himself a moment to consider the surprising defiance he’d seen in the kids face. 'Barry.' Huh. Then he shook off the thought. He had more important things to think about. He holstered the cold gun, flipped the toaster oven shut, and strode out of the kitchen.

“Hartley,” he called, entering the room, “you owe me ten thousand dollars.”

* * *

The second time, Len was curious. 

He’d never been one to leave well enough alone, especially when there was a puzzle to solve. No one had ratted on them before the first heist; they’d gotten the drop on the bank an hour before the Santinis could show and robbed the place blind. Nine hundred and seventy-eight thousand dollars, cash. Hartley had worked out the marked bills ahead of time and only sulked a little when Len had followed through on his threat and subtracted ten grand from his cut. He’d sulked a little more when Len had asked him for his phone, too, but hadn’t put up a fight. 

The house was empty now, and Len sat in the dark, mulling over the website for the local pizzeria on Hartley’s phone. He tapped over to the most recent completed order. 

1 pepperoni pizza, large. No utensils. 

And beneath that, a box for delivery instructions that read:

_ “Send your cutest delivery boy.” _

Len snorted. 

A button at the bottom of the page offered an option to express reorder. Len checked the time; it was the same time as their meeting the week before, give or take fifteen minutes. He considered it, weighed his curiosity against everything else he had to do that night, and then clicked the button. 

He waited in silence for a minute. Then the phone pinged, and he swiped it open to read the notification.

_ We’re sorry. Our delivery team is unable to accept your order at this time. _

On a hunch, Len clicked back to the website. He pressed the button again.

This time, the message came in almost immediately: _ We’re sorry. Our delivery team is unable to accept your order at this time. _

He pressed the button again. 

Five minutes passed, then Hartley’s phone lit up with a message from an unknown number.

_ Okay listen dude I know I’m breaking the cardinal rule of not using the customer’s number for this but no way _

Len smirked. 

He navigated over to the number, hit the call button, and held the phone up to his ear. It rang nearly to voicemail before Barry picked up.

“I am not getting killed by Captain Cold so you can have a pepperoni pizza,” he said, without waiting for a greeting. “The food isn’t even that good here.”

“Captain Cold?” Len repeated. He let his smirk color his tone. “Didn’t realize I had a fan.”

On the other side of the line, Barry went silent. Then: “I haven’t told anyone.”

There it was: the sharp anger Len had been waiting for. He could hear the haughty set of Barry’s jaw. It was enough to make Len wish Hartley's phone had a cord for him to twirl in amusement around his fingers. 

“Trust me, Barry,” he said. “If you had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” 

He’d intended to let the threat hang for a moment in the air; instead, Barry hung up on him.

When Len called back, Barry picked up on the first ring. 

“Why are you calling me?” he demanded.

“I’m hungry,” Len said. “And Big Belly Burger isn’t open.” 

“I don’t believe you.” 

“It’s true,” Len said. “Closed at ten. Make it a cheese pizza for me, would you? I'm watching my cholesterol.”

There was a hostile pause on the other end of the line. Then, “I’m still charging you for a pepperoni,” and a dial tone again.

When Barry arrived half an hour later, Len took his time scrutinizing him. The soft dusting of freckles was more extensive than he’d realized the first time, charmingly so. His hair was also somehow even wilder than before, dark and messy and criminally soft.

When Barry raised an unimpressed eyebrow and proffered him the pizza box, Len opened the door wider and gestured him inside. 

Barry gave him a wary glance as he walked past him into the space; not much of an instinct for self-preservation, then. But Len appreciated the chance to give him a proper once-over, noting the lack of uniform (a plaid flannel thrown over a dark shirt, jeans) and worn tennis shoes. 

Barry set the pizza down on the kitchen counter, inches from where Len had bounced him off of it a week earlier, then leaned back against it. He braced his arms behind him and regarded Len carefully. 

Len smirked at the challenge in his eyes, but only dug a twenty dollar bill out of his wallet and crossed the space to hand it to him. When Barry paused before accepting it, Len drawled, “Too good for a twenty percent tip, Barry?” 

Barry flashed him a glare without heat and pocketed it. “Guess you made up for it last time,” he said. 

When he made no move to leave, Len turned his gaze away to get down a plate from the cabinets. Barry was still watching him openly when he turned back. It wasn’t a look that raised Len’s suspicions, though. He wasn’t casing the room, not attempting to peek into the cabinets when Len opened them. Instead, eyes sharp, he seemed to be waiting. 

“You can go now, Barry.” 

Finally, Barry gave himself up; he glanced at the pizza box. 

Len’s suspicions lit up at once. When he’d held it, it had seemed no different than a normal pizza. But now he doubted himself, and he reached past Barry to draw a cleaver from the knife block behind him. He let the back of the blade brush past Barry's arm, watching for any reaction, but Barry remained motionless. 

Then, Len slid the tip of the knife under the edge of the box’s lid and flipped it open. 

Nothing happened. The pizza sat innocently inside the box. After a moment, though, Len made sense of what he was looking at. 

“Pretty sure I said cheese,” he said, turning.

Barry glanced at the pizza, plain but for a thin layer of sauce, and failed to suppress a grin. Then he shrugged. “You said you were watching your cholesterol.”

Not only had Barry willingly taken a call from a wanted crime boss; not only had he walked himself into a house where he’d had his life threatened by a gang of meta humans a week earlier; he’d done all of that and brought Len the wrong order. On purpose. 

Len had never been so intrigued. 

“Stop calling my store, _ Cold _,” Barry said, and he pushed himself off the counter with a lazy grace. “You’re out of delivery range.” 

* * *

Len honored Barry's request; a week later, he skipped the call and texted his order to Barry directly. He’d switched to a burner, but Barry apparently had no trouble guessing who was on the other side of the unknown number.

_ I want at least a five dollar tip this time _

_ Gas isn’t free _

Len glanced at the messages and sent back a short: _Don’t get greedy. _

He’d barely set the phone down when it buzzed with a response.

_ Rich coming from you, Cold _

Len rolled his eyes. 

_ You’re only incriminating yourself by calling me that,_ he sent back. _ Plausible deniability not your strong suit? _

The reply came within seconds:

_ Five dollars, Leonard _

Len was halfway through explaining why that was not at all an improvement when he heard keys in the front door and Lisa swanned into the house. 

He had, by his guess, twenty-eight minutes before Barry arrived with the food. All attempts to bully Lisa back out failed, however. She always had been able to tell when he was trying to get rid of her.

When the doorbell rang, she ignored Len’s growled warning and bounded across the room, where she threw the door open with a grin. Her enthusiasm dimmed when she saw the pizza box, though.

“Oh,” she said. She looked Barry up and down, then pouted. “I thought you were my brother’s booty call.” 

Barry’s expression cycled through several emotions in the space of a second. Then he blushed. “Uh, no. Nope!” He let out a forced-sounding laugh, unnecessarily loud. “Just, dropping off a pizza. Delivering it. You know.” 

Lisa looked at him with a measure of concern, and the slightly manic grin dimmed.

From over Lisa's shoulder, Len gave him an exasperated look. He pulled another twenty from his wallet, crossed to where Lisa was still blocking the door, and handed Barry the money under Lisa's outstretched arm.

“Thanks, Len,” Barry said. He moved to pass over the pizza box, and Lisa caught him by the arm instead. 

“Len?” she repeated incredulously. When she looked back at Barry, her eyes were sharp, and a slow grin was spreading across her lips. 

Len tried to get in between them to intervene, but Lisa hauled Barry into the room before he could manage it. 

“You’re the pizza guy that Hartley ordered. I remember now. You’re still alive?”

“Paid him off,” Len grumbled, but it was a lost cause. 

“Oh, Lenny,” Lisa breathed. She swept Barry with a once-over, then reached out and touched the ends of his hair, oblivious to the way Barry blanched. “He’s _ cute._ Dibs.” 

“I’ve gotta go,” Barry said, his voice gone high. “I actually have another delivery in the car—” 

“Really, Lisa?” Len said, making another attempt at dislodging her hands. “I think we’re a little old to be playing dibs.”

Lisa turned an unimpressed glare on him. “First of all, speak for yourself," she said. “I’m thirty-one. Second of all…” She tapped her manicured nails along Barry’s arm, then met Len’s eyes in an obvious challenge. “Are you objecting to my dibs?”

Len rolled his eyes, took the pizza from Barry’s hands, and turned away. “Leave the kid alone, Lis. He’s on the clock.”

“That wasn’t a no!”

Len dropped the pizza on the coffee table and glanced back at Barry, who was still standing in the middle of the room, looking fairly dazed. 

“Barry?” Len prompted him. “Your other deliveries?”

Barry started guiltily. “Yeah, right. I’ve got to—” He scrambled for the door, then glanced back as he opened it. “I’ll see you around?”

“Oh _ will _ you?” Lisa asked. And for a second, before Barry pulled the door shut behind him, Len could’ve sworn he saw him smile. 

* * *

After the Lisa incident, Len very nearly deleted Barry’s number and threw out the burner. 

The damage, of course, was already done. The next day he had been short with Lisa over the phone, and she’d taken obvious pleasure in crooning at him, “What’s wrong, Lenny, expecting a _ package _ to be delivered?” 

But his curiosity won out in the end. At the end of the week he sent Mick home early, sent Barry another message, and waited for the doorbell to ring.

Almost an hour passed. When the doorbell finally rang, the sound lingered longer than usual, as though the person outside had more leaned on the button than pressed it. Len checked the peephole before opening the door.

Barry still offered him a smile, but it was late and unconvincing. 

Even at first glance Len could see he was exhausted, his skin wan and shoulders slumped. He’d let his shirt come untucked at some point without bothering to fix it, and his hair looked as though he’d been dragging his hand through it all night. 

Barry clearly noticed the disapproving stock that Len was taking of his appearance. He offered him a one-shouldered shrug. “Back to back doubles,” he explained. “I closed last night, but work needed me to open this morning. Then someone called in sick, so, I’ve been on shift ever since.”

Len indulged himself in a brief fantasy about tracking down whoever it was that had taken the night off, then dismissed it. “And they let you drive like this?” he asked.

“Hey, I’m a _ great _ driver.”

Something in Barry’s voice told Len that this was patently untrue. 

He weighed his options. Barry was practically swaying on his feet, and Len wasn’t sure he wanted the kid’s blood on his hands. At the very least, he didn’t want to be the last number on his call log. 

He stepped back and held the door open. 

“Not letting you back on the road without some coffee,’ he said.

“It’s fine,” Barry objected. “You're my last delivery, really.”

Len ignored him. He took the food and walked deeper into the house, leaving Barry to trail in after him if he wanted to get paid. Len put the box down on the coffee table in the living room, then gave Barry a sharp look.

“Touch anything while I’m gone,” he said, “and I’ll freeze your hands off. Got it?”

Barry muttered something Len probably didn’t want to hear, but the way he dropped onto the couch told Len he wasn’t going to be up snooping around any time soon. 

When the coffee maker beeped, Len hooked a mug over his pinky, tucked two plates under his arm (Barry looked like he could use the extra meal), and brought the carafe into the living room with him. He set the coffee pot down on top of a coaster. It wasn’t until after he’d placed the plates down too that he realized Barry was being oddly quiet.

He’d made himself comfortable, Len noted dryly. Barry’s sneakers were in a polite heap on the floor, and he had kicked his long legs up on the couch to stretch out. He had one arm wrapped tightly around the throw pillow under his head and was out cold. 

Len strongly considered knocking his feet off the couch to wake him up. Even if he was finished with his shift, the meeting house had to be one of the most unsafe places in Central for Barry to be sleeping.

Then Barry tucked his face into the pillow a little further, forcing Len’s attention to the soft sweep of his lashes over dark circles, and Len rolled his eyes at the faint sense of pity it stirred in him. Fifteen minutes, he decided, helping himself to a slice of pizza from the box. Then he’d wake him up, get some coffee in him, and get him out of his hair. 

Barry woke up with a start an hour later, jolting upright in a panic. His wild-eyed gaze swept the room, not understanding, and he was half off the couch before Len saw the recognition creep into his eyes. 

He was sitting on the couch adjacent, one ankle crossed over his knee, with a tablet propped against his leg so he could scroll through the details of Shawna’s latest scouting mission. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Barry sank back against the cushions. Len gave him a moment; he knew nightmares well. 

Once Barry seemed to gather himself, Len took a long sip of his coffee and set it down on the table. Only then did he look over, expression carefully neutral. 

Barry slid his feet off the couch with a soft thump. He dropped his elbows on to his knees and leaned forward to rest his head in his hands, then scrubbed roughly at his hair and sat back. 

“Sorry,” Barry said. 

The dark circles under his eyes seemed, if anything, even deeper, and his hair looked absolutely wild. Len wondered with idle curiosity if Barry’s brush with the Rogues had had anything to do with his uneasy sleep. There wasn’t any guilt to the thought; Len knew that there were plenty of people in Central who would’ve killed Barry for the same bad luck. 

Still, something about Barry’s far-off gaze told Len that he had worse ghosts than the Rogues stalking his dreams. 

“You didn’t have to let me sleep,” Barry rasped. He pulled his phone out of his back pocket, saw that it was dead, and tossed it on the cushions beside him. Then he looked over at Len. “What time is it?” 

There were pillow lines crossing Barry’s cheek, and Len turned his gaze back on the tablet to hide his amusement. “Time for pizza boys to be on their way home,” he said. 

“Sorry,” Barry said again.

Len dismissed the apology with a flick of his fingers. “Consider it your tip.”

One lukewarm cup of coffee later, when Barry tried to hand him his change on his way out, Len shut the door in his face.

* * *

_You avoided causing any fiery wrecks on the way home, I hope._

Barry had left over an hour ago, and Len had spent that time resolutely not worrying about him. He reworded the message three times before he caught himself, then sent off the next one he drafted.

Enough time passed without a response that Len began to castigate himself for sending the text, but he was saved from running the odds of Barry having actually gotten in some kind of accident when his phone buzzed, twice, in rapid succession. 

_ Ha ha _

_ You’re hilarious, you know that? _

It was good enough for Len. He switched the phone off and dropped it on his nightstand to charge. 

When he checked it in the morning, there were two new messages from Barry. Len had missed them by just a few minutes. 

The first one read: _ Night, Len _

And then, simply:

_ Thanks _

* * *

The week after that, a meeting with the Rogues went late, and Len had no time to think of errant delivery boys. Tensions in the group were climbing. Len wasn’t sure what the breaking point was going to be, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to be prepared when it did come. 

When the doorbell rang that night, it was Rosa on the other side of the door, smiling a sickly sweet smile and claiming she’d left her jacket behind. She was still acting in a way that got Len’s hackles up, poking around the house and asking twice if anyone else was home, but Len could do nothing but watch her make her rounds with one hand resting on the handle of the cold gun. 

She had just drifted to the kitchen, saying she was _ certain _ her coat was around there somewhere, when the doorbell rang again. 

Len knew with a dark certainty who was on the other side of the door, even before he pulled it open and found himself on the receiving end of Barry’s hopeful smile. 

“Hey,” he said. He had a box tucked under one arm, his other hand rubbing the back of his neck. He was wearing a nicer shirt than what Len had seen him in before, a deep red that complemented his skin tone nicely. Open to the second button, it drew Len’s attention to the graceful line of his throat and the scatter of freckles on the top of his chest. His dark hair was brushed back into some semblance of order. He smelled like mints. 

“I know you didn’t place an order,” Barry continued, flicking his gaze back to Len, “but I was getting off my shift, so I thought I might stop by? And, uh, see if you were hungry.” 

Barry’s eyes caught on something behind Len, and his voice dried up. “Oh,” he said. He passed his hand over the back of his neck again, glanced down the sidewalk behind him, and then up at Len with an embarrassed grimace. “Sorry, I didn’t…”

Len’s skin crawled, hyper aware of having his back turned to Rosa. Fat chance she would find his mercy towards Barry as charming as Lisa had; he needed the kid out of there before she recognized him. 

“You’ve got the wrong house,” he said. He tried to convey the danger that Barry was in with a glare, but Barry was already nodding and stepping backwards, eyes on the ground as a blush ravaging his cheeks. 

When Len closed the door and rounded on Rosa, he found her only inches away from him.

“Who was that?” 

“Some kid,” Len said. He pushed past her and glanced into the kitchen. A quick count at least assured him all of the knives were in the block. “A prank.”

“Makes me miss the good old days, huh, Snart?” Rosa said. “Want me to get his plate? I could always slash his tires, give him a little scare.” She grinned. The promise of violence in her eyes was part of the reason Len had recruited her, but now, it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Don’t waste your time,” Len said. “We’ve got a heist next week. No distractions.”

“None?”

Len nearly missed a step, but didn’t take the bait. He held her gaze evenly as he opened the door; enough time had passed that Barry would have a head start. When Rosa left, Len found the jacket slung over the back of a chair in the living room. It was the first place she’d looked. 

* * *

Len had been tempted to text Barry every night after that one, hunted by the unfamiliar urge to explain himself. It had been stupid and dangerous for Barry to come by, he reminded himself; Barry knew what kind of people were likely to be hanging around the house. 

Almost as stupid and dangerous than it had been for Len to call him the couple times before. _ That _ had been inexcusable, and it was a mistake he wouldn’t make again. 

A week later, he gave in. He placed the order late, just before Barry was going to get off shift. 

When his doorbell rang twenty minutes later, Len hauled himself to his feet, feeling uncustomarily foolish. He had no plan for what to say to Barry. He’d assumed that Barry meant to stick around the week before, but what if it really had just been foolhardy concern for him? He clearly had no sense of how serious a threat the Rogues actually were. If seeing Rosa was what made him stay away, all the better. No matter that he’d clearly made an incorrect assumption about why she was there. Len would take the pizza, give him another grand to ease his own guilt, and tell him that this time, he really did have to never come—

He’d only gotten the door halfway open when the bullet ripped through his shoulder, and someone tackled him through the narrow gap. 

Len moved on instinct: find the gun, break the wrist, incapacitate the attacker. He recognized Rosa and he snapped the gun out of her hand, and her wide eyes told him she hadn’t expected her first shot to miss. He swung the gun up even as she disengaged, and he fired a shot after her as she took off down the sidewalk. It went wide.

He tried to adjust his aim but his shoulder screamed in protest, refusing to move his arm any higher, and he had to drop the gun and clutch the wound as he fell into the doorway. Somewhere nearby, tires screeched into motion.

He needed to call Mick. Where was Mick staying? Somewhere close, Len was sure of it. If not him, Lisa, but he’d always tried to keep her from the worst of it, and if the wound was worse than it felt...

He made it two steps before the room swam up to meet him. His vision blurred, then went dark, and he was unconscious before he hit the ground.

The next sound he recognized was the hesitant squeak of the front door hinges, then someone gasping his name.

He heard several things hit the ground at once, dropped with some force. Then Barry was rolling him onto his side and talking so fast that Len could barely recognize it as speech.

“I’ve got gloves in my car, a first aid kit,” Barry gasped. “I’ll be right back, please don’t die.” 

Len didn’t remember him leaving or coming back. The next thing he knew, Barry’s voice was close by again. Len had just enough time to decipher the words as having been “Please don’t kill me for this” when an explosion of pain rocked his left side. He must have screamed. He tried to sit up, nearly pushing Barry off of him. 

“Stop—fighting me,” Barry gritted out. 

Len realized, belatedly, that Barry was attempting to staunch the bleeding in his shoulder with a kitchen towel. He bit out a curse and dropped back onto the carpet.

“Oh, thank god,” Barry said. “Can you say something? I need you to stay awake.”

“Fine. I’m fine. Get off,” Len snarled, batting at Barry even as his eyes smarted from the pain. 

“Great, keep talking,” Barry said absently. “This is gonna hurt even more.”

Len felt the pressure lift off his shoulder. The smell of cheap vodka gave him half a second’s warning for what was about to happen, then the burning liquid splashed over his shoulder, and he blacked out. 

* * *

“Len. Len.” 

He became aware of a hand shaking his good arm, and he made another attempt at shoving the kid away. 

“Said I’m fine,” he muttered. 

“Yeah, I heard you,” Barry said. He sounded relieved. “We need to get you out of this shirt. Do you think you can stand?”

It took more effort than Len would have preferred for the sake of his dignity, but Barry managed to hook his arm around his shoulders and hauled him to his feet. As they staggered down the hall toward the bathroom, Len noticed for the first time that, when he wasn’t slouching, Barry was of a height with him. Possibly even taller. 

“I don’t _ slouch.”_

Huh. Len hadn’t realized he’d said that out loud. 

The front of Barry’s white button-down was stained-through with blood when he helped Len to lean back against the sink, and Len tipped his head as he considered it. “Red’s a good color on you,” he decided. 

Barry looked down at himself, and Len snorted when he went a little pale.

“You’re so lucky I don’t faint at the sight of blood,” Barry said. He cautiously let go of Len’s arm to survey the damage, then placed his hands at the neck of Len’s shirt. “We’re gonna have to cut this off you, alright?”

Len nodded his assent. He regretted it a moment later when the room spun, and he clutched the edge of the sink for balance and swallowed a groan. 

Barry returned with scissors. The room was quiet except for the soft sound of the scissors cutting through fabric, Barry’s fingers nearly hypnotic on Len’s chest as he guided the blades carefully. “Well,” Barry offered, startling Len out of his reverie, “at least it’s not the parka.”

Len glanced at him, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “My, my,” he managed. “You really are a fan.”

Incredibly, a blush touched Barry’s cheeks. Then he uncapped the bottle of liquor he’d evidently poured on Len before and grimaced. “You need something to bite down on?” 

Len gritted his teeth and fixed his eyes on the far wall. “If I do, you’ll know.” 

* * *

When Len woke up, it was in his own bed, with messy bandages wrapped around his chest and the sharp smell of bleach stinging his nose. 

He levered himself out of bed with some effort. He noticed the glass of water and the bottle of painkillers on the nightstand and disregarded them. His shoulder aching, he limped out to the main hall, following his nose to the source of the scent of cleaner.

The carpet in front of the door was a glowing, conspicuous white. There wasn’t a stain in sight, and even the ghoulish splatter of blood was gone from the wall beside the door. Len had never seen a crime scene turned over so fast, and he’d paid for a lot of cleanups. 

When he found Barry, he was in the kitchen, rinsing a plastic tub out in the sink.

“Where’s a twenty-five year old learn to clean a carpet like that?” Len asked.

To Len’s immense gratification, Barry jumped. But he turned with a brilliant smile anyway as he shut off the tap. “You’re up,” he said. “I thought you might be soon. Your shoulder isn’t that bad, you know? Straight through the muscle on both sides. I think it’s gonna heal pretty fast.” 

Len catalogued the information. He decided not to mention the current dizzying pain, and made an effort at making his lean against the doorway look casual. “Good to know. Also, not what I asked.”

The smile dimmed. “I just, you know.” 

When Len only raised an eyebrow, Barry scratched the back of his neck and busied himself with putting the bucket on the drying rack. 

“Some salt, some enzymes. A little peroxide.” Barry shrugged, a little too sharply. “Are you hungry?”

Len felt a growing suspicion in the pit of his stomach. He straightened out of his lean, as much as it pained him to do so. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Barry,” he said. “You know how to clean up a crime scene. Now tell me why.”

“I’m, uh.” Barry visibly warred with the lie, guilt radiating from every line of his body. Then he dragged a hand over his face, looked up at Len with a miserable expression, and said: “I’m sitting for the CCPD entrance exam next month.”

Len stilled.

Whatever Barry saw in his face, it was enough to make him take a hasty step forward, palms out in a placating gesture. “It’s not like that,” he said. “I’m applying for the forensics lab. The CCPD certification is just a formality, I won’t even get a gun—”

“Get out.”

Barry looked as though Len had just hit him. 

“Len,” he said. “Don’t do this.”

“Won’t ask a second time.” There was a gun on top of the freezer, just out of Len’s reach. He let Barry track his gaze to it, then took a step toward it. 

Barry, unexpectedly, didn’t retreat, and stepped forward to close the distance between them instead. “My job doesn’t matter. You’re hurt, Len. You’re being—”

Len couldn’t listen to another word, feeling Barry’s eyes on him, feeling exposed. He reached sharply for the gun at the same time Barry moved to stop him.

Barry needn’t have bothered; the movement wrenched Len’s shoulder, and he nearly shouted as a bolt of pain shot down his arm. 

“Len!” 

He didn’t know his legs had buckled until Barry was dropping to his knees beside him. 

“Don’t touch me,” Len snarled, shaking off the hand on his arm. 

“Let me help you,” Barry said. His eyes were wide with concern, but his jaw was set stubbornly in a way Len was beginning to recognize as the end of an argument. 

“I’ll be fine,” he snapped. He levered himself up with the aid of the wall to prove it, then sank against it for support. “Just, go shower,” he said. “You reek of bleach.” 

Barry did go eventually, after corralling him to the couch and forcing the bottle of pain relievers into his hand. Once he heard the water start, Len dropped them on the table without opening them. 

He tried to stay upright, but the throbbing in his shoulder was getting worse with every passing minute. He made it another thirty seconds, then snatched the pain relievers off the table. He stormed back to the bedroom, allowing himself the luxury of a sulk in private, then took four aspirins without water and fell back asleep. 

He slept on and off for the next three days, until he could move his arm without wishing he could amputate the whole thing. Barry gave him his space, at first, after the whole freezer-gun snafu. He ordered delivery, paying at Len’s instruction with the money he kept stashed around the house, then left him alone while he busied himself with his phone, or—more boldly—practice books for the upcoming entrance exam. 

But he insisted, over Len’s objections, on changing his bandages every twelve hours. He disappeared, once, leaving a note to say he was just going to grab clothes and clear things up at work. When he returned, Len made a point of having locked the door behind him so he was forced to knock and argue his way back in. If the pizza in his hands meant that Len didn’t put up a particularly large fight, well, at least it let Len have his pride. 

Barry filled the silence with long, rambling stories that were apparently inexhaustible in number. He didn’t mind if Len didn’t speak for hours at a time or fell asleep in the middle of a third iteration of his concerned rant about his best friend’s recent behavior. (He was concerned she was avoiding him; he didn’t understand how a newspaper could keep a junior reporter so busy.) 

Len learned that Barry had grown up in Central, same as him, and had never spent more time away from it than the occasional week at summer camp. He had a degree from a fairly selective college uptown in forensic science, which at least backed up the story that he was trying to become a glorified lab tech. The buzz of his voice became a familiar backdrop, even as Len began to get his feet under him again and started testing how long he could stay awake at a stretch.

The door stayed locked, and the blinds stayed shut. Most calls, Len answered with a cursory, “Not a good time.” Even with Mick and Lisa, he kept the conversations short. He listened long enough to hear that they had Rosa on the run, that she’d taken Scudder and Bivolo with her, and then told them to keep looking before he hung up again.

When Barry’s phone rang, he declined the calls with a guilty look and then stuffed the phone back in his pocket. 

It was getting to the point where Barry had little excuse to still be hanging around. He had just returned to the safe house after a short shift at work, apparently called in to cover under threat of losing his job. When he came in, he’d excused himself to shower, explaining his need to wash off the smell of burnt pizza. When Len asked, pointedly, if Barry didn’t have a shower at home, the question sailed over his head.

“Yeah, my dad’s gonna lose his mind when I get back,” he said. “He flips if I don’t call for one night.” 

Len didn’t have time to ask Barry an incredulous question about still living at home; Barry started stripping out of his shirt as he walked out of the room, effectively derailing Len’s thoughts until he was gone.

A few minutes later, Barry’s phone began ringing where he had left it with his keys on the coffee table. It rang through, stopped, and then began ringing again. The third time, Len finally crossed the room and picked it up.

The caller ID showed “Joe.” Len skimmed his memory of the last few days for any mention of the name from Barry, and came up empty. Likely another work emergency, or what passed for it at a pizza joint. 

Len swiped the accept button and raised the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Barry?” the voice on the other end demanded. “Where the _ hell _have you been, I’ve been worried—”

“Barry can’t come to the phone right now,” Len interrupted, inspecting his fingernails. “Take a message?”

In the answering silence, he heard the shower turn off. 

“Just tell him to call me,” the man said. 

Something about the voice gave Len pause. Slowly, he asked, “And this is?”

“Detective Joe West. Who is _ this? _” 

Len hung up. 

When Barry entered the room a minute later, his appearance was almost—almost—enough to distract Len: he’d obviously dressed hastily, wearing only a pair of boxers. His skin was still beaded with water, highlighting the lines of his lean muscles. The freckles were more sparse on his stomach, but there was a matching pair just above the sharp vee of his left hip that was doing its best to draw Len’s eyes. He was drying his hair with Len’s spare towel, unintentionally showing off the lithe grace of his body. 

“Was that my phone?”

Len clicked the phone down on the table with barely contained rage. He’d been worse that stupid; he’d been _ naive. _Even after Barry had told him he was training to become a cop, Len had let him stay, idiotically charmed by the unashamed way Barry showed every emotion on his face, his clumsiness, the rambling stories of the kind of easy life that Len might himself have led under different circumstances. 

All of it must have been calculated, Len now realized. He couldn’t believe it. He’d spent decades building up his guard, and he’d let it down for the first pair of green eyes that flashed his way. 

“Len?”

He was tempted, just for a second, to pick the phone back up and fling it at Barry. But an old memory stopped him cold: a bottle thrown across the room at his head, a six-year-old Lisa wailing in his arms.

He wouldn’t be that person. He refused.

He flexed his fingers at his side instead as he took a hard breath, then counted back from five and looked up.

Barry was twisting the towel nervously between his hands. 

“Len,” he tried again, “Whatever it is, I can explain—”

“Can you?” Len asked, tone carefully even. “Well then…” He swept his hand in front of him in a magnanimous gesture. “I’m all ears. Why _ was _Joe West calling your phone at this time of night?”

“Joe?” Barry repeated. “How do you know—” 

“He arrested me for grand larceny last year,” Len interrupted. He tilted his head and added with a shrug: “Among other charges. Nothing they could prove. Was _ quite _insistent that he’d find some way to put me behind bars, though. One way or another.”

Barry let the towel drop to his side, lips parting in confusion. “And, what, you think _ I—” _

“Don’t play dumb, Barry. It’s not cute on you.” 

Barry stalked forward a step, fingers curling in obvious anger at his side. “Yeah, no.” He had the gall to sound angry; Len had to give him credit for that. “Whatever you’re accusing me of, it’s bullshit, alright? I’m not here for, what, brownie points with the CCPD? I don’t even work for them yet!”

“You rally expect me to believe that?” 

“Do I look like I’m wearing a wireto you?” Barry demanded, sweeping his arm to indicate his bare chest. 

Len didn’t take the bait. He turned away and grabbed Barry’s bag off the couch. “Take this and get out of here. Or I _ will _ shoot you this time.”

A hand closed over Len’s upper arm, inches from where his bandages crossed under his shirt, and Len caught Barry by the wrist before he could so much as attempt to pull him back around. 

Barry yelped in surprise as Len turned sharply and twisted Barry’s wrist up between them. Two long steps and he had Barry’s back slammed against the wall, and he pressed in close after him. This close, he smelled distractingly like Len’s shampoo. 

Barry tossed his head and snapped, “Let go of me.” 

Ignoring the shooting pain it brought his shoulder, Len brought his other hand up and anchored it in Barry’s wet hair. He didn’t allow himself of the distraction of the soft feel of it between his fingers. His self-loathing warred for top spot against his anger at Barry’s betrayal. 

Barry met his gaze with a fierce anger of his own behind lashes still damp from the shower. “This doesn’t even make sense!” Barry said. He tried to shake Len’s arm free and winced as he tightened his grip instead. “You guys called _ me, _ remember? I didn’t have you address, I didn’t even know who you _ were.” _

“And you just happened to have the lead detective for my case on speed dial,” Len sneered. If there was a voice in the back of his head telling him that Barry was making sense, he ignored it. 

“Joe’s my dad!” Barry exploded. 

Len stared at him. Whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been that. Then, he slowly lifted an eyebrow. 

Barry looked exasperated. “Adopted,” he explained. “Foster, originally, it’s—Look, it’s a long story. My mom was, was killed, when I was a kid. They arrested my dad for it. I didn’t have anywhere to go, and Joe…”

Len could see it in his mind’s eye: a young Barry, scared, alone, standing in a living room swarming with uniformed cops. Joe West—a daughter Barry’s age, if Len remembered correctly, some of Barry’s stories clicked into place—stopping to kneel in front of him, heart softened by the same wide vulnerability that Len was seeing in Barry’s eyes now. 

So. He’d been even more of an idiot than he realized. He loosened his grip on Barry’s wrist without quite letting go and cut his gaze away. He needed to recalculate. Of all the things he had expected…

“Asshole,” Barry grumbled under his breath. 

Len flashed his gaze back at him.

Barry startled, and cleared his throat “Uh,” he said. His gaze swept over the room behind Len’s shoulder, darted back to his face, then away again. When Len cocked his head at him, daring him to repeat it with a raised eyebrow, Barry, incredibly, blushed. 

Len became abruptly conscious of the position they were in. Barry was all but naked, pinned between him and the wall, and the way he was tilting his head into the hand fisted in his hair told Len that he had Barry even more at his mercy than he’d realized.

Len eased Barry’s arm out of its bent position slowly, watching his expression carefully. Relief flickered into Barry’s eyes. Then, when that skittish gaze landed on him again, Len let his lips curl up into a slow smirk. 

Barry swallowed. “Uh,” he said again. “You… I mean, you _ were _, are, being an…”

Len tugged experimentally on Barry’s arm and dragged it upwards slowly. 

Barry went willingly. 

His gaze flicked between Len’s eyes, pupils blown, and Len could feel his breath come faster against his lips. 

“I must say, Barry,” he drawled, letting his mouth curl around the name just to watch Barry shiver under his gaze. “I’m surprised. Didn’t _ Joe _ ever teach you what happens when you hang around the wrong crowd?”

“You wouldn’t—I knew you wouldn’t hurt me.”

Len leaned in, letting his stubble scrape past Barry’s jaw, and inhaled slowly. The scent of his soap on Barry’s skin, pale and raised with goosebumps, made something possessive flare to life in his chest. “Now, now,” he said, and he clicked his tongue, softly, just shy of Barry’s ear. “Let’s not take anything off the table just yet.” 

Barry didn’t manage to choke back the needy sound he made in response.

Len felt Barry strain against his grip, back arching off the wall as he tried to push closer, and he tightened the hand in his hair in warning. 

“Awfully bold of you,” he said, “keeping that little secret from me.”

“I didn’t—” Barry started.

Len silenced him with a look. “Must’ve known I’d wanna know about that. Didn’t you?”

He waited until Barry, trembling under his hands, nodded once.

“And you kept it from me anyway.” He _ tsked._ “Why is that, Barry? Worried I’d send you away?” He slid his hand up from Barry’s wrist to cover the back of hand, then slotted their fingers together. “Find someone new to play nurse with?” 

Barry’s next breath was nearly a groan, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Why did you want to stay?” 

Barry took in a ragged breath and fixed Len with a heated look under his lashes. “We both know you’re a better man than you pretend to be.”

Len went still. A beat late, he recovered his composure, and he gave Barry’s hair a warning pull. “Don’t insult me.”

“It’s true.” 

Len couldn’t even begin to count the mistakes that had brought him here. It was karma, surely. Or the Santinis had sent him a very, _ very _ specific decoy—

“All those heists,” Barry said. “You’ve been hitting places with insurance. I did the research. And the way you got the Rogues in line, keeping them from hurting innocents?” 

Len had heard enough. 

“Don’t let your dick cloud your judgment, Barry,” he said. 

“I’m not.”

He was, of course. He had to be. Because otherwise, this was…

Len shook himself out of it, bringing his attention back to the task at hand. He stepped a boot between Barry’s feet, bare on the kitchen tile, and pressed his thigh to Barry’s groin. 

Barry’s jaw snapped shut. The blood rushed to his cheeks, eyes going wide.

“Sure about that?” Len asked. “Because I think I might have found some evidence to the contrary.”

He enjoyed the feeling of power returning, a sense of control settling back over the whole situation. Then Barry rocked his hips up to grind against Len’s thigh with a breathless whine, and Len felt all rational thoughts abandon him.

“Shit, I don’t—” Barry gasped. “I don’t care. Len, please, I don’t— Just—”

Len caved. He dropped his hand from Barry’s wrist to catch his jaw and kissed him, a hot press of his lips as he met Barry’s next rock to drag his thigh against the hard line of Barry’s cock.

Barry fisted his hands in the back of his shirt, scrambling for a grip to drag him closer. Len felt the dampness of Barry’s skin as their chests pressed together, and Barry’s shudder told Len that he was intensely aware of every brush of the cool buttons against his taut stomach. 

Len was enjoying every inch of Barry’s naked skin against his clothed front, as well as the telling way that Barry was making no move to undress him. Len relinquished his grip on Barry’s hair to reach down and pull his leg up to wrap around his waist. Barry’s breath stuttered against his mouth, a sound escaping him that Len swallowed when he reclaimed his mouth, dragging his tongue against Barry’s. 

He realigned their hips and rocked against Barry again at the new angle. He let him feel the weight of him through the front of his jeans, grinding closer to elicit a moan from Barry’s lips. Barry was fully hard now, the head of his cock slipping free from the elastic of his waistband. Len took care as he dragged the raised seam of his zipper along the underside of Barry’s cock through the thin boxers. 

Barry arched up against him with a desperate sound in the back of his throat, grip tightening as he twisted his fingers in the back of his shirt and urged him closer. 

Barry’s control was visibly fraying as Len kissed his way up his neck, a blush climbing his throat and splashing his chest as he heaved for breath. Then he gasped a sharp, “Fuck, Len, _ Len _—” and pushed his shaking hands against Len’s chest, twisting away. 

Len dropped him like a live wire. Certain he had overstepped, he stepped back to let Barry’s leg drop from around his waist.

Barry nearly collapsed back against the wall, knees shaking. 

“Barry—” 

“Bed,” Barry said. “We should…” His eyes were almost entirely black, a narrow blade of green all that remained of his irises. His heavy gaze flicked over Len’s body, then back to his face. “Yeah. Bed,” he repeated.

For another moment, Len stayed where he was. He was still sorting through the conflicting shocks firing in his brain, the overwhelming need to have his hands on every inch of Barry’s body breaking itself against the wall that was the certainty that Barry had been pushing him away, that he had misread the situation and pinned Barry in without a single real question—

Barry caught him by the sleeve with unsteady fingers and yanked. He dragged him forward a few steps down the hallway, occasionally throwing out his other hand to steady himself against the wall.

Then Len’s brain caught up with him, rapidly flitting through every opportunity _ bed _ brought to the situation. He closed his hand around Barry’s to stop him. When Barry turned, he nearly startled a laugh out of Len with the obvious flare of impatience that crossed his features. Len pulled him back in and caged him back against the wall. He sought Barry’s mouth again as he skirted his hands down Barry’s sides. He could feel a question in Barry’s kiss; then he curled his hands over the back of Barry’s naked thighs, squeezed once, and nipped his bottom lip in encouragement. 

Barry, clever boy, took the hint. He twined his arms around Len’s neck, hopped up, and wrapped both legs tightly around Len’s waist. 

Len’s shoulder screamed in protest as he caught Barry beneath his thighs, but he was past the point of caring. He growled against Barry’s mouth in approval and pressed his back to the wall. 

Barry licked into his mouth, pushing forward with a new desperation. The angle gave Barry almost full control of the kiss and he pressed the advantage, tipping his head down to curl their tongues together. 

They barely made it the last few steps to Len’s bedroom. Barry kissed him relentlessly, driving him insane. When he sucked on Len’s tongue, Len nearly dropped him in the doorway, his cock jerking helplessly in response. 

Barry caught the stumble, and Len felt him grin against his mouth. It fanned something dangerous in Len’s chest, something warm and amused, and he tipped Barry backwards on the bed as he pushed the thought away. 

A distraction came blessedly quickly in the form of Barry stripping out of his boxers. 

“I’ve wanted this since…” Barry shook his head with a wry twist of his lips. “Actually, I shouldn’t even say. Day one.”

Len raised an eyebrow at the memory of their first meeting. “Got a thing for being pushed up against walls, Barry?” he asked.

“When it’s you?” Barry gave him a crooked grin that made Len’s treacherous heart skip a beat. “Yeah.” 

Barry reached for him, and Len barely had time to step out of his boots before Barry tugged him onto the bed fully clothed. He was all long limbs and freckled eyelids; Len could hardly process it fast enough.

Barry breathed his name again and rose up to kiss him hard. He sought a grip on Len’s shoulders, skirting the edge of the bandages on his left side until he found a safe anchor. Len couldn’t tell if he was trying to hold himself up or pull him down on top of him; a moment later, an ankle hooked around the back of his thigh and answered the question.

Len lowered himself down on top of Barry slowly, taking his time mapping the contours of Barry’s lips. He let Barry shift and seek out the best angle underneath him until they were pressed together, front to front, and Len could feel Barry’s cock drag against his lower stomach. 

“Len,” he breathed. And then, again, _”Len.”_

Len shifted his weight to one arm and started to reach between them, but Barry beat him to it. He dropped back against the pillows and fumbled for Len’s belt, panting for breath. His trembling fingers flitted over the belt for a maddening couple of seconds before he finally caught a finger under the leather loop and pulled it free from the buckle. 

The fixed determination of his face was disgustingly endearing. Forcing the feeling away once more, Len licked his free hand, then dragged the wet palm of it up Barry’s chest and over a nipple. 

Barry’s fingers skittered uselessly over his zipper as he jolted from the touch. He breathed his name again, then got the zipper down in one sharp yank. He dragged the jeans impatiently down Len’s hips and brought Len’s underwear with them. Barry cursed softly as he caught sight of Len’s cock. Then, when Len answered his questioning glance with a jerky nod, Barry reached up to cup him in his hand. 

Len bit out a sharp curse at the soft drag of Barry’s palm, and realized his laundry list of opportunities the bed brought them had been wildly over-optimistic. He’d keep Barry in the sheets for the rest of the day and the whole night too if he needed to—right now, he was already on the knife’s edge of desire, and needed his hands on Barry yesterday. 

He pressed him back into the sheets with a bruising kiss, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip until Barry whimpered and wrapped his fingers properly around his cock. Len dropped his weight onto his elbow and reached between their stomachs. 

Barry cried out against his lips when he closed his fist around his cock. 

“Please,” he begged. He arched his hips up as he scrambled for Len’s hip with his free hand and guided him closer. “Please, Len, I want you.”

He didn’t need to ask; Barry already had him. It was, distantly, a terrifying thought; this kid, this cop’s son, this frankly terrible delivery driver, had him completely at his mercy. 

It was a problem for another time, though. Len could give him at least this one thing, and he lowered his hips to drag against where he was stroking Barry’s cock with slow fingers. 

“Let me,“ he said, and he reached over to bedside dresser and jerked the drawer open. He fumbled for too many wasted seconds before he closed his hand around the bottle of slick and came back up with it. He had no hand to open it with, so he handed it to Barry. 

He’d assumed that Barry would let go of him for a moment to open it, but he’d underestimated him. Barry caught the cap between his teeth and snapped it open with a jerk of his head. He made a passing face at the taste (Len raised an unimpressed eyebrow in response), but a moment later Len had to screw his eyes shut and curse at the feeling of Barry’s slick hand closing around both of their cocks. 

Len found the bottle and tipped it messily into his own palm. He didn’t have a passing thought for the sheets as he tossed it somewhere within arm’s reach but far enough to keep it out of the way. He traced slick fingers up Barry’s thighs and up his crease, relishing the stutter in the rhythm of Barry’s hand in response, then wrapped his fingers over Barry’s hand and joined him in stroking them. 

Barry arched up against him, his voice cracking around a moan. He guided Barry’s fingers tighter and increased the pace, then chased him down against the sheets to taste the moans that were edging ever louder on his breath. 

Barry was tense as a wire beneath him, drawing his heel up the back of Len’s calf as he wound closer to him, like he was trying to draw him under his skin. 

“Len, fuck,” Barry gasped. “Len, shit, I’m going to come, I can’t—” 

Len kissed him again, humming his understanding against his lips, and sped their hands. Barry cried out, muffled by the kiss, and bucked underneath him. He thrust his hips desperately into the cage of their fingers. His other hand caught Len around the back of the neck and held his lips against his. Then he thrust up again and dropped his head back with a cry and Len tightened his grip. He stroked him hard and intently and Barry arched against him with a shout of his name, and came hard against their stomachs. 

The desperate slide of Barry’s cock against his was too much for Len, and he gave in to the rushing crest of his own orgasm as he felt Barry’s come spill over their fingers. 

He did his best to work them both through it, loosening his fingers as Barry’s grip slackened, and then finally let go when Barry collapsed back onto the bed in a shaking heap. 

Len rolled off of him and dropped onto the sheets next to him. He stared at the ceiling, distantly attempting to make sense of what had just happened, but he was pulled from his thoughts when Barry rolled over heavily next to him, dropped an arm across his waist, and tucked his face against his shoulder. It was unexpectedly pleasant. Len was surprised to find himself already close to sleep, and he made a mental note, absently, to return Hartley the ten grand after their next heist. 

* * *

They were both dozing off when the sound of a door slamming open startled them both into alertness. 

Len reached for the gun on the bedside table on instinct, reaching out with his other hand to shove Barry back down against the sheets behind him. His shoulder burned and Len barely managed to bite back a curse, unwilling to take his eyes off the door for even a second. Any second, Rosa was certain to bust through the door, leading whatever coalition of Rogues she had succeeded in swaying against him. Or worse, Lisa.

An arc of purple lightning split the darkness of the room, blindingly bright. When Len blinked the after-image out of his vision, a familiar figure in black and purple tripolymer was standing at the foot of the bed.

“Barry!” 

Barry yanked the covers up to cover his chest in a panic, yanking them half off of Len as he scrambled back against the headboard. 

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, where have you…” 

The Flash trailed off, slowly, her mouth dropping open as she took in the scene in front of her. 

Len slid his gaze over to Barry. There was some consolation that he seemed just as bewildered as Len felt, but it was a close call. “Any particular reason you’re on a first name basis with the Flash, Barry?” he drawled, hand still paused above the open drawer of the nightstand. 

As he watched, the sheets fell numbly from Barry’s fingers—the Flash raised a gloved hand to cover the bottom half of her vision, expression one of consternation—and Len saw recognition light up Barry’s eyes. 

“Are you—?” he started.

“Barry—”

“You’re the Flash?” 

“You’re sleeping with Leonard Snart?” She pointed a finger at Len with such vehemence that her hand left a purple crackle of static in its wake. 

“How could you not tell me?” Barry asked, half-shouting over her now. “Does Joe know?” 

At that, Len snapped his gaze back to the Flash. Finally, after six months, he could place the resemblance he’d noticed the first time he saw those brown eyes. So that was who was under that mask. Fantastic. 

“I thought you were dead!” 

“You told me you got a promotion!” 

“Why are you with Captain Cold?”

Len cast one last longing look at the gun on the bedside table next to him, then sighed. 

“Gonna need more clothes for this,” he announced, and Iris West flung her hands over her eyes with a strangled cry as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are sure to make my day. ;)


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